Kantelvar’s espejismo lurched toward Isabelle. “I rearranged the world for you! I overthrew kingdoms. I started wars, and this is how you repay me!”
Isabelle stepped out of his way. Julio recovered and grabbed Kantelvar’s arms. After a brief struggle, the cleric sagged in Julio’s grip like a sail on a becalmed sky.
“Is this the artifex?” du Blain asked.
“What’s left of him,” Isabelle said.
“Traitress,” Kantelvar mumbled. “I gave you the world.”
Julio asked, “Do you have any great suggestions for what to do with him? Or should I snap his neck and be done with it?”
“I thought we were going to use him as evidence,” Isabelle said.
“As a pickled head,” Julio said. “When he couldn’t argue.”
“You will burn for this,” Kantelvar promised. “Both of you and all you hold dear. The prophecy was given to me—”
Julio gagged him with an expertly applied chokehold.
Isabelle’s expression soured. “You have a point, but don’t kill him yet.” She turned to du Blain. “Please enlighten me as to the state of the court.”
The ambassador coughed into his hand. “King Carlemmo is dead. Príncipe Julio”—he paused to give the real Julio a significant look—“and Queen Margareta have called the Sacred Hundred to put Príncipe Alejandro on trial. Alejandro was just about to admit to regicide when your musketeer burst into the room and announced that you were on your way and that there was a plot afoot to assassinate you. He did not mention your Príncipe Julio. Grand Leon dispatched me to welcome you and provide you safe escort.”
Julio looked surprised. “Did Margareta send no one?”
“The musketeer sent them on a wild goose chase to the harbor.”
“Bless Jean-Claude,” Isabelle said. “How is he?”
Du Blain took a second to answer. “He still lives, but he had to fight his way into the hall, and he was sorely wounded. Worse, he embarrassed Grand Leon with his antics.”
Isabelle’s heart all but seized at the thought of Jean-Claude wounded on her behalf. Too brave he was.
Du Blain gestured to Julio. “Evidence suggests we do not want any forewarning of Your Highness’s escort to reach the court before we do.”
“That is correct,” Isabelle said, relieved. “And might Príncipe Julio borrow your hat, er, minus the flora?” If Julio played the part of Isabelle’s escort, hauling her captive, with the wide brim of his hat pulled far down, hopefully nobody would be able to see Julio’s face to identify him until he chose to reveal himself.
“But of course,” du Blain said, discarding the flowers and handing the much humbler brim to Julio.
Julio donned the hat, readjusted his grip on Kantelvar, and said, “This one will do everything he can to destroy us.”
“Perhaps, but he’s more of a threat to Margareta than to us. If only because she has farther to fall.”
“Assuming she recognizes him.”
“She will,” Isabelle said. “I’ll make sure of that. Just keep him quiet and your face covered until I give the word.”
“Any word in particular, or am I supposed to guess?”
“I’ll make it obvious,” Isabelle said, hoping the dryness in her mouth translated to a dryness in her tone. She had foolishly imagined that merely delivering Julio, alive, to the court would be sufficient to disrupt Margareta’s plans, that she could turn the hard work of dismantling the queen’s conspiracy over to someone else, but if Alejandro had already confessed … The possibilities for disaster spun out too fast to be elaborated upon.
The strange little band set off from the Spindle. A long staircase wound completely around the outside of the building, providing a distressing view of the city. Plumes of smoke and tongues of fire already consumed whole neighborhoods. The air shook with the rattle of muskets and the bass hammering of cannons, and she was glad when they descended to street level, where at least the scope of the chaos was obscured.
They hurried through the empty streets and into the palace. The grounds were already crowded with refugees, seeking some sanctuary from the fighting. Du Blain flashed his credentials and rippled his bloodshadow at every guard or servant who sought to intercept them.
By the time she strode through the wide-flung doors of the Hall of Mirrors, Isabelle’s heart had gone numb from hammering on her ribs. Fear ached like a bruise in her soul much worse than the ones blooming all over her body. So many people’s lives depended on her: Julio, Alejandro, even Clìmacio, and all those souls who would be lost if Kantelvar’s civil war grew into the nightmare he had planned.
Trumpets announced her arrival, and a herald called out, “Her Highness Princess Isabelle des Zephyrs de l’Empire Céleste.”
Everyone in the room stood. All gazes fell upon her as she limped down the center of the aisle toward the royal dais. The Sacred Hundred and their retainers stared at her with various levels of calculation, antagonism, and fear. Their situation was just as precarious as hers. If they should pick the loser in the succession debate, it could cost them everything from their titles to their heads. And there were the foreign dignitaries, Grand Leon chief amongst them, and—yes!—Jean-Claude stood by his side, though he was pale and his clothes were soaked with blood. He grinned and made a careful bow, sweeping his hat as if to clear all obstacles from her path.
She smiled at him, glad despite her dread. She wanted to rush over to him and touch him, to feel the warmth and the life of him.
Instead, she paused only long enough to dip a curtsy to Grand Leon. “Your Majesty. I have come to discharge the duty you laid upon me.”
One corner of Grand Leon’s mouth quirked up and he nodded ever so slightly, appreciating her double meaning and giving his blessing.
His approval gave Isabelle courage. She lifted her chin and marched toward the royal dais, where awaited Queen Margareta and Clìmacio.
Margareta remained in her seat, still playing the part of the widowed queen, but she followed Isabelle’s progress with lupine intensity. Did she still dream of securing an alliance with l’Empire through Isabelle, or did she consider her victory over Alejandro absolute? Isabelle prayed that her presence was strong enough to draw attention away from her companions. Julio had his hat pulled down and this version of Kantelvar certainly looked nothing like the one Margareta was used to.
Clìmacio, wearing Julio’s likeness, gazed down woodenly from his perch, his face no more animate than that of a puppet, which his mother wanted him to be. Half a dozen guards had been posted at the foot of the dais.